


The Hand of Destiny That Was Guiding Us Together

by whisperedstory



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fate & Destiny, First Time, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier and Geralt are meant to be, Jaskier takes care of geralt, M/M, hurt geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22862866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: Nine weeks before meeting Geralt in Posada for the first time, a mage tells Jaskier the White Wolf is his destiny. It takes him another ten years to figure out what that really means.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by dancing_adrift <3\. Title taken from Kris Kristofferson's song "A Moment of Forever".

There are some coins in Jaskier's pockets and his belly is full with stew and ale, his lute set aside for the night, as he sits at a table in the tavern and enjoys another cold ale—a reward for the—dare he say, quite stellar, even if not everyone appreciated it as much as they should have—entertainment he provided tonight.

He's barely taken more than a few sips when a woman sits down across from him. She's beautiful, dark hair spilling over her velvet, teal-colored cloak, the smile on her lips soft and pink. Her eyes, so dark they're almost black, glint with something that makes Jaskier a little suspicious, but the unease is not enough for him not to give her an appreciative once-over. For him not to join her for the night, were she to offer.

"M'lady," Jaskier says with a flirty smile and a slight bow of his head. "What may I do for you?"

Her smile grows wider, her eyes darker. "Oh, it's not about what you can do for me," she says, her voice smooth. "It's about what I can do for you, Jaskier."

"Oh? And what is that?" Jaskier replies, shifting on the bench and leaning forward, lips lifting up into a small grin. The fact that she bothered to remember his name from when he introduced himself at the beginning of the night pleases him—most people don't, either calling him bard or various forms of insults. 

The woman leans forward too. "Nothing like that," she says, her tone amused, and Jaskier feels a pang of regret, because she truly is very beautiful and he wouldn't have minded the company for the night. "I can tell you your future, Jaskier."

Jaskier sits back instantly at that and laughs nervously. She's a mage, then. He should have known, because she's really too beautiful to be an ordinary girl from town. Which is really too bad. Because Jaskier might make poor choices when it comes to his lovers sometimes, but he doesn't mess around with sorceresses. 

"Oh. Well, that's mighty kind of you," he says. "But I'm a simple bard; I have no need to have my fortune told, really."

The woman cocks her head to the side and hums, her eyes fixed on Jaskier and he's starting to feel uncomfortable. "Free of charge," she says. "The White Wolf, Jaskier. You carry his mark. That's where your path has been leading you since you took your first step. You will find your fate with him. And it's almost time."

She gets up then, brusquely, and turns.

"Hey. Hey, wait," Jaskier calls. "A wolf? What—what does that mean?"

He gets up in an attempt to chase after her, almost getting knocked over by another patron, but she's out of the door before Jaskier can catch up. Hurrying his steps, he bursts out into the night. 

The dirt road outside is empty, the only noise coming from inside the tavern. 

The mage is gone.

*

"Who in the world does that?" Jaskier mutters angrily, tugging his doublet off. "Goes up to an innocent person and tells him his fate unasked. And a wolf! Couldn't it have been something nicer? A long, blessed life of song and wine?"

He huffs, stripping out of his clothes to get ready for bed.

He feels tired suddenly, worn, but sleep doesn't come easily that night, his stomach in knots. Jaskier has always believed in destiny; since he was a boy he used to have lofty ideas about what life might have in store for him, used to imagine that he was destined to become a famous bard, beloved and known across the entire Continent. 

It's cruel to find out what his true fate apparently looks like.

When he finally falls asleep he dreams of a wolf looming over him, teeth bared as it snarls before it rips into him.

*

Over the next few weeks, Jaskier feels nervous whenever he travels, keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings. He avoids forests altogether and he only feels relief when he's in a town, because what are the odds of being attacked by a wolf there? 

He buys a knife that he keeps tucked into his right boot, thinks—hopes—maybe the mage's words were meant as a warning, giving him the opportunity to save himself.

Not that the creepy mage was very specific about just what the wolf had in store for him, but Jaskier doubts it's very good. He figures the likelihood of him meeting a feral creature that will not want to hurt him—and, what, become his travel companion?—are slim to none. Though it would make an excellent story and probably help his fame quite a lot. The bard and the wolf.

Jaskier doesn't hold out hope though.

He only hopes some other bard will hear about his tragic, fated demise and write a beautiful ballad about him, immortalizing Jaskier in a song. Not Valdo Marx though. He can go die in a ditch, as far as Jaskier is concerned.

*

Nine weeks—nine long, long weeks—after Jaskier's run-in with the mage, he finds his way to Posada.

And as his eyes settle on the brooding, tall figure in the corner of the tavern, his worries and fears are momentarily forgotten. 

Jaskier has always been easily distracted. By a good story or a pretty face. The man is quite easy on the eyes—he's magnificent, really, broad and dark and heartbreakingly handsome—and Jaskier would bet he has a good story or two to tell as well, and Jaskier is drawn to the man like a moth to a flame. 

It doesn't take him long to figure out who he is and it sends a thrill through him.

Geralt of Rivia.

And as he follows him out of the tavern, it dawns on Jaskier. The white hair, the medallion with the wolf around his neck.

Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf.

*

Jaskier means it when he tells Geralt that he smells of destiny and heartbreak. Jaskier's destiny and probably his heartbreak, too.

The destiny part was foretold and the heartbreak, well, Jaskier is familiar enough with that to know exactly where this is heading. He falls easily and hard, but usually he leaves just as quickly again and he's been left more than once as well. But he's never, not once, felt that sharp tug in his gut that he felt when he saw Geralt. That pang of excitement and longing and need to get closer, get to know him.

One look and Jaskier knew he would follow Geralt of Rivia to the edge of the Continent and beyond.

Geralt needs a little convincing though.

"What are you doing?" he asks gruffly when Jaskier doesn't leave his side after Posada.

"Nothing. I guess I just happen to be going where you're going."

"And where's that?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier grins at him, still strumming his lute. "Well, I can't tell you that. Wouldn't want you to follow me," he replies, and Geralt's glare makes his stomach swoop instead of twist, and Jaskier knows he's well and truly fucked.

*

"You can't just keep following me, bard," Geralt says a few days later.

Jaskier looks up from his notebook where he's writing down the words to a new song he composed this afternoon, while trudging next to Geralt through a forest. He'd repeated the lines in his head endlessly, committing them to memory, because Geralt refused to take a break to let Jaskier write them down. 

"Jaskier," he says pointedly.

"Bard," Geralt repeats, staring into the fire instead of looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier sighs. "Okay, well, I guess we'll deal with that later," he concedes. Geralt hasn't called him by his name once yet, and it irks Jaskier, of course, but he knows how to pick his battles. "Look, just let me stick around for a while. What can you do to stop me anyway?"

"Tie you up and leave you here."

"Kinky," Jaskier says with a smirk, and Geralt looks at him sharply, eyes narrowed and mouth pressed into a line. "Just a joke, but I see my humor isn't appreciated."

"Nor is your presence," Geralt mutters, and Jaskier covers the sting of those words with a smile.

"Just let me travel with you, write a few songs. I've written more these past few days than I usually do in a few weeks. And they're _good_ songs," Jaskier says, _pleads_ , his tone more serious. "I can only get pelted with bread for so long, Geralt. I need to catch a break. And quite frankly, I think so do you, don't you?"

Geralt huffs. "No," he says curtly and then heaves a sigh. "You'll get yourself killed. I can't keep you out of trouble and do my job."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," Jaskier says, though that's a complete lie. But he feels safe with Geralt, even when they're rushing head-first into danger. And Jaskier can't leave, knows it deep down in his heart that even if he wanted to, leaving Geralt isn't even an option.

"I'll stay out of your way. Out of trouble," he adds. He watches the muscles in Geralt's jaw tick, tense, the fire throwing shadows over his face. And just that is enough to make a thousand words pop into his head, just waiting for him to turn them into songs. _This_ is where he's supposed to be, what he's supposed to do, spread the word about Geralt of Rivia far and wide, make people look at him in awe instead of terror, make them see him the way Jaskier does.

"Fine," Geralt finally grits out. "If you want to get yourself killed, go ahead. I won't save you though, bard."

"Okay," Jaskier accepts with a small smile. He knows it's a lie.

*

Jaskier is proven right just a week later, when Geralt pulls him out of the way just before sharp claws can embed themselves in Jaskier's chest. They still catch his arm, the pain making him cry out as he stumbles down to the ground, safely behind Geralt. 

He watches with wide eyes as Geralt slashes at the beast that jumped out at them, snarling and growling. The gash on his arm is burning and Jaskier hisses as he presses his hand over it, feels the warm stickiness of blood.

Geralt takes quick care of the monster, his silver blade glinting in the afternoon sunlight before he buries it deep in the creature's ribs, blood so dark it's almost black spilling out as the beast howls.

There are splatters of the blood on Geralt's face and in his hair when he turns to Jaskier and kneels down in front of him.

"Dammit, Jaskier," he growls, and the sound of his own name— _finally_ —makes Jaskier smile, even as he makes a pained noise when Geralt tugs his hand away from the gash on his arm.

"I don't see how that could have possibly been my fault," he quibs weakly.

Geralt sends him a sharp look, but doesn't reply. "Take this off," he says, tugging at the fabric of Jaskier's doublet. "We need to clean the wound."

"It was my favorite," Jaskier says mournfully, and Geralt rolls his eyes, but his touch is surprisingly gentle as he helps Jaskier slide the doublet and shirt over the wound.

"It's not too deep," he assesses, and Jaskier frowns.

"It feels deep," he argues. "And it _hurts_."

"I told you you shouldn't have come with me."

"Oh, don't start on that again," Jaskier sighs as Geralt retrieves his waterskin. "I can take it. And it'll make for a good song."

He flinches when Geralt starts cleaning the wound, passing a wet cloth over it. He's close enough that Jaskier can smell him, sweat and leather and metallic blood, and he watches Geralt, whose face is grim and serious, but there's something else too. Something almost like worry.

"It barely hurts," he lies, his tone soft. "It's just a scratch, really."

Geralt lifts his head, meeting his eyes, and doesn't reply. He's close, so close, and Jaskier's heart picks up speed in his chest. He itches to reach up and touch Geralt, wipe the tacky drops of blood off his cheek. 

"Just a scratch," he repeats quietly and offers Geralt a smile before he can do something stupid like kiss him. "I'm fine. Not that you'd care, of course."

"Of course," Geralt agrees and he holds Jaskier's gaze for a moment too long, before he focuses his attention on patching Jaskier up again.

*

The piece of bread hits Jaskier square on the shoulder and it's stale enough that it hurts and he grunts. 

"Hey," he yelps, glaring at the man a few steps up the dirt road who pelted him with it. "Is that how you welcome all visitors here? Because let me tell you, it's frankly quite rude."

"We don't want your kind here," the man replies, and Jaskier can only gape in reply. He ducks as the man throws something else just as they pass him.

It's not like it's the first time he's had people toss bread or fruit at him, because some people are fucking ungrateful and don't appreciate the gift of music, but it's never happened just because he stepped foot into a village. Jaskier's used to being welcome wherever he goes, at least at first. 

"Did you hear that?" he finally sputters, looking at Geralt. "What the fuck is wrong with these people?" 

"It wasn't meant for you," Geralt mutters, and Jaskier feels a flash of relief before the meaning of Geralt's words sinks in.

He turns his head back. Jaskier isn't a fighter, he never has been, but in that moment he feels anger churning deep in his belly, wants to rip into this guy with his fists or his words.

The man is gone though, vanished inside a house or alley. 

"Unbelievable," Jaskier spits, shaking his head. "And yet I bet he'll be begging you for help if need arises. Ungrateful mongrel."

Geralt grunts, and Jaskier can't believe how unbothered he looks. He knows what kind of reputations witchers have, of course, he just figured maybe people would be a bit more respectful when actually faced with one. If for no other reason than fear. Judging by the way Geralt isn't reacting, though, Jaskier can guess he's used to this kind of reception. It's unfathomable that people can't seem to see Geralt for who he really is—strong and brave and _good_. So heartbreakingly good, even if Geralt himself would deny it. 

"That's it? A grunt? How can you not care?" he asks, his heart aching a little for Geralt. 

Geralt shrugs wordlessly and Jaskier frowns at him.

"Well," he says, making his tone light as he squares his shoulders and tips his chin up as he glances around. There aren't a lot of people around, but those that are are watching them closely and Jaskier silently dares them to say something. "I guess I'll just have to care for the both of us then. You'll see, Geralt of Rivia, by the end of our stay here these people will be singing my songs about you."

"That's what I fear," Geralt mutters in reply, but Jaskier can see the corners of his lips twitch up just a little. 

It spurs him on, makes him want to double his efforts to sing Geralt's praises. To fulfill the role destiny has picked for him.

*

Jaskier knows he's not a man of a lot of patience, but change needs time.

Months pass, seasons change, but eventually Jaskier's songs gain some popularity and people start to listen to him when he sings, start to sing along to lyrics he wrote. Start to look at Geralt differently, too, though not always. 

The coins Jaskier makes pay for rooms and baths and warm, hearty dinners. 

Geralt doesn't stop complaining about his music, doesn't stop pointing out all the ways in which his lyrics are wrong, doesn't stop telling Jaskier he needs to stop painting him as a hero. But Jaskier, foolish as he might sometimes be, isn't stupid. Geralt looks a little less tense when they enter a village these days, sits and drinks a few more ales instead of retiring to their room while Jaskier performs, and never once complains when Jaskier arranges for baths for Geralt with the money he makes. 

Jaskier is enjoying his popularity as well. Enjoys the women that pay him attention, the comforts of nice beds and nicer wine, the clothes he can afford—and thank gods for that, because traveling with Geralt is a hazard to his outfits.

But if things were different, if not one person cared for his songs, Jaskier wouldn't change anything. Would still be traveling with Geralt, following him blindly into the depths of danger with little regard for his own safety.

Spreading songs about the witcher might be his destiny, but being around Geralt is what he _wants,_ more than anything. 

Jaskier isn't used to sticking around. He connects easily, but he always cuts his losses before too long, moves on to the next thing that catches his attention. The thought of settling down has never once appealed to him, scared him even—there's so much to see, so many people to meet. But with Geralt, he's stuck, and the only scary thing about that is how not scary it is.

*

Dark clouds are gathering in the distance and the wind is howling through the rocks around them, shaking the few trees and bushes nearby. 

Jaskier tugs his knees a little tighter against himself and sighs. The overhang they've settled under for the evening will give them some shelter, but he doubts they'll be able to keep the fire going when the storm really hits. 

The noise of a branch breaking makes Jaskier still, his hand going to his boot where he keeps his knife, but he relaxes again when Geralt comes into view, holding a dead hare. 

His hair is tangled and wind-swept, face smudged with dirt and some blood, though it's not a lot. The werewolf they'd followed had already been hurt and weak, and Geralt had finished it off quickly. He'll make a decent amount of coins with it tomorrow, when they bring its head to the alderman in the village, but it's a long trek and they wouldn't have made it there before the storm.

"Took you long enough," Jaskier jibes when Geralt gets closer. 

"Maybe you should catch your own dinner then, Jaskier," Geralt replies, and Jaskier grins.

"Oh, but you do plan to cook yours over the fire _I_ made, don't you?"

"And what makes you think I can't just make my own fire?" Geralt asks with a huff and then gives Jaskier a pointed look. "And take my cloak back." 

Jaskier tugs the heavy, warm cloak more tightly around himself. "Alright, alright," he gives in. "Thank you for providing me with dinner, oh great witcher. And for giving me your cloak. Even if it smells rather questionable." 

The look Geralt gives him, exasperated yet amused, makes him smile. Geralt kneels down by the fire and Jaskier tugs his knife free and tosses it to Geralt, who catches it easily.

"Need any help?" Jaskier offers, though he knows Geralt will decline it. They have a routine, and Jaskier is quite happy that it's up to him to get a fire going and set up their bedrolls while Geralt takes care of everything that involves blood and guts.

Geralt, as expected, grunts out a no, and Jaskier averts his eyes to watch the fire instead of Geralt skinning the hare. He'd get his lute out and play, but he doesn't want to unwrap himself from Geralt's cloak, so he just hums quietly under his breath. 

In the distance, the sky rumbles. 

"Oh, this is going to be a fun night," Jaskier mutters.

"We'll be fine."

"You'll be fine. You don't get cold the way I do," Jaskier points out, turning his head a little towards Geralt. 

To his surprise, Geralt is watching him, too, his expression for once relaxed and amused. 

"I will most likely suffer greatly tonight," Jaskier continues dramatically, just to see Geralt smile. "In fact, I might not see morning."

"I'll keep you warm," Geralt says, rolling his eyes slightly, and Jaskier ducks his head so Geralt won't see the flush on his face as the many thoughts of just how Geralt could keep him warm flit through his mind.

*

It starts raining shortly after they've finished their dinner, the dark clouds making nightfall come sooner than usual, and they settle down for the night as far under the overhang as they can, the fire hissing and popping as the wind blows rain onto it.

Geralt lies down behind Jaskier, radiating warmth, and Jaskier shifts closer to him as far as he dares.

They've slept like this before. Shared a bedroll during cold nights or a bed when they couldn't get a room with two. Jaskier cherishes those nights, being so close to Geralt, and Geralt has never seemed bothered by it either. 

His bulk shields Jaskier from most of the rain thrown their way when a particularly strong gust of wind hits, and while it means Geralt is closer to the fire, Jaskier still feels warm under the thin, coarse blanket and Geralt's coat. Geralt's breath is hot and damp against Jaskier's nape, and Jaskier shivers when it tickles over his skin.

"Cold?" Geralt guesses and he curls an arm around Jaskier's waist, tugs him closer against him, until they're touching everywhere, bodies curled perfectly together.

Jaskier's breath catches and he _knows_ Geralt hears it and he closes his eyes and hopes Geralt will let it slide.

"Jaskier?" Geralt prompts, and Jaskier bites down onto his lower lip.

"Yeah. Cold," he finally lies, voice weak. 

"Hmm." Geralt shifts against him, his hips snug enough against Jaskier than he feels everything, and Jaskier lets out a quiet moan. He expects Geralt to pull away then or push Jaskier away, which would be _bad_ because he'd end up with his face in the hard rock.

But Geralt hums again and then he turns his face into Jaskier's neck, breathing— _sniffing_. His nose brushes against Jaskier's skin and then his mouth. "Okay?"

Jaskier is half convinced he must be dreaming. There's no way Geralt is asking, offering him this. No way Geralt is almost kissing his neck, no way Jaskier can feel the thick bulge of his cock against his ass. 

"Jaskier. Yes or no?" Geralt asks, his tone almost amused.

"Yes," Jaskier chokes out and Geralt fucking _hums_ again. A moment later, he rests his hand on Jaskier's stomach, splays it out, his touch warm and firm and Jaskier is already half-hard, heat coiling in his belly. 

Geralt nuzzles behind his ear. His hand slides lower and Jaskier groans when Geralt palms his cock, rolling his hips against Jaskier at the same time.

"Oh gods," Jaskier groans and tosses his head back. "Please. Geralt, touch me."

"I am," Geralt says, his tone bloody teasing and Jaskier would kill him if it wasn't for the fact that just having Geralt touch him above his trousers already feels utterly blissful. 

Geralt kisses his neck, grinds against him again, once, twice more, and then finally starts undoing Jaskier's trousers. Jaskier groans when Geralt's hand curls around his cock.

"Yes, Geralt, yes, like that," he babbles, and Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel him against him, thick and hard and _big_. Geralt's touch is firm, his palm warm and calloused. There isn't enough room for him to stroke Jaskier smoothly and his hand is too dry, but nothing has ever felt better than this, having Geralt's hand on him as he ruts against Jaskier. 

When his mouth finds Jaskier's throat, right where it curves into his shoulder, and he kisses a spot before he bites at it, Jaskier lets out a whimper. He never wants this to end, but more than that he wants to feel Geralt's mouth on his. Feels like he's going to die if he doesn't. And so he curls his hand around Geralt's wrist, tugs at it, and Geralt instantly freezes, starts drawing back.

"No," Jaskier pants even as he tugs Geralt's hand free, and then he turns and closes his mouth over Geralt's. It's off-center, Jaskier too worried about breaking the spell to aim for finesse, but then Geralt groans and kisses him back, curls his arms around Jaskier and pulls him tight against him.

Finally, Geralt gets his hand on Jaskier's ass, palms him as Jaskier slips his leg up around Geralt and buries his fingers in Geralt's long hair, and they rock together as they kiss. 

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts and breaks the kiss. He bites at Jaskier's jaw, nuzzles his throat, and without Geralt's mouth on his, Jaskier is making all kinds of noises, breathless and needy. 

Geralt pushes him over onto his back, rolls with him, and Jaskier lets his legs fall open, welcoming Geralt between them. 

"Oh sweet Melitele," Jaskier mutters when Geralt's weight settles onto him. The ground is hard and uncomfortable, but Jaskier doesn't care, because Geralt is heavy and firm on top of him, pinning him down as he grinds against him. One hand is trapped under Jaskier, gripping his ass tight enough to bruise, and Jaskier has never felt anything better in his life. 

He's thought about this, of course he has. He doesn't think it's possible to look at Geralt and not want him, not think about having those strong hands on him, that wonderful, muscled body pressing down on him. But reality is so much better than anything Jaskier dreamed up.

He comes with a small cry, and Geralt's own groan as he releases is muffled in the curve of Jaskier's neck. 

They lie like that, panting and sated, for a few moments, before Geralt rolls off him with a sigh. He pulls the blanket and cloak off Jaskier and Jaskier hisses as the cold air hits him. 

"Geralt," he all but whines, and Geralt snorts but tucks the fabric back over Jaskier. Jaskier hums in thanks and then, deciding to be brave, rolls onto his side and shifts close to Geralt. He kisses the curve of Geralt's shoulder through his shirt, damp with sweat, and when Geralt doesn't pull away he slides one leg between Geralt's and slips his arm around him. 

"Hmm, good night," he murmurs, and Geralt sighs again, staying silent, but he rests his hand on top of Jaskier's arm.

*

Geralt is already up when Jaskier wakes the next morning. It's early, the sky murky grey-blue and heavy with clouds, but at least it's stopped raining and the wind isn't as strong. 

Jaskier still shivers. Everything is damp and a little cold, and he feels stiff and aching as he sits up.

"We should leave soon," Geralt says, and Jaskier turns his head to find him standing by Roach's side. Memories of the previous night hit Jaskier like a brick then, and his insides twist unpleasantly; he feels momentarily unsure of himself around Geralt in a way he rarely ever is.

"Right, yeah. Of course," he says, looking away. He wasn't expecting anything, but he still feels let down, his heart heavy with the thought that this might change things between them for the worse. He's going to do his damndest to not let that happen, but he knows Geralt, knows there's a good chance he will use last night as a reason to push Jaskier away.

"We both need a hot bath," Geralt says, and Jaskier looks back up at him, finds him with just the barest hint of a smile on his face. 

Jaskier flushes, because yeah, there's dried come on his skin, hidden by his clothes, and he no doubt smells less than pleasant, and Geralt looks pretty rumpled. "We do," he admits.

"We'll stay in town till tomorrow before we leave," Geralt suggests.

 _We_ , Jaskier thinks and breathes a little easier. 

*

They don't talk about it. But a couple of months later they're at an inn in a small village near Lyria and, after a few too many ales, it happens again. Jaskier is a bit hazy on how when he wakes up the next morning, but he knows one moment he was talking and the next Geralt had him up against a wall, kissing him, before they stumbled into bed together.

It becomes a thing after that. Sometimes they go for weeks, or even months, without touching, other times they seem to barely be able to keep their hands off each other. 

Jaskier knows sometimes Geralt starts things just to get Jaskier to shut up, and he'd be offended if it wasn't for the fact that he's used sex to get a reaction from Geralt when he's frustrated by Geralt being particularly stoic. Other times they just need to blow off some steam and yet other times it's slow and lazy, like there's nothing else in the world they need to be doing.

There are other people still, plenty of them over the years, and sometimes they split up for a few weeks, but they always come back to this, to each other. Jaskier isn't a fool, though, he doesn't get any false ideas about what this thing between them is—companionship at worst, friendship at best despite Geralt's denial. And if he sometimes wishes for more, if his feelings run deeper than Geralt's, then that's not something Geralt ever needs to know.

He's happy with what he has. Happy to fulfill his destiny singing praises of the White Wolf, and sharing his bed with Geralt sometimes and his life most of the time.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the years, Jaskier thinks less and less of the mage who told him the White Wolf was his fate. In fact, he never expects to cross her path again. The knowledge of his destiny becomes part of his life, but the mage who told him about it became irrelevant after he met Geralt.

But then he sees her almost ten years later, in yet another tavern, this time in White Bridge.

People are in high spirits that night, ale flowing freely and Jaskier's performance has been well received. He's just finishing his last song, feeling warm and happy from a successful night and maybe a bit of wine, when he sees her across the room, watching him. He stumbles over his next words, but nobody seems to notice, and Jaskier catches himself and manages to finish the song without another mishap to some cheers and a few calls for more music.

"Thank you. Thank you, but that is it for tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if I'm still in town, I'll play some more," he says.

He glances at Geralt, who is sitting in a dark corner by himself, his scowl enough to warn off anyone who might get the wrong impression of him because of Jaskier's songs. 

Jaskier licks his lips and his eyes find the mage again. She's still watching him. Jaskier offers her a nervous smile as he approaches her.

"So, we meet again," he says. "Are you here to remind me of my destiny?"

The mage smiles at him indulgently and briefly glances at the corner of the room where Geralt sits. "It seems you've met yours, just like I told you you would."

"I did, I did," Jaskier says and gives her a cheery smile, even as his stomach feels like it's tied in knots. She makes him feel more uneasy than she did last time, maybe because he knows better now. "I'm traveling the Continent and spreading the story of the witcher wherever I go, just like I was meant to do. And I really don't need to know more about what life has in store for me, because I'm quite happy with how things are, thank you very much." 

The mage regards him, eyebrows raised and then she gives a laugh. "Oh. You think that is your destiny, Jaskier?" she says, almost fondly. "Your songs, while enticing, are not what ties you to the witcher. It's just you, Jaskier." 

She touches his chest, right over his heart, and smiles at him. "You carry his mark, remember?" 

Jaskier shifts away from her touch. "I'm not sure I know what that means," he says and chances another glance at Geralt. He's looking at them, expression as stony as ever. 

"You belong with him, simple as that," the mage says, drawing her hand back. "Goodbye, Jaskier. And next time, I will expect payment if you wish to have your fortune told."

"I never wished it to begin with," Jaskier mutters, staying rooted where he is and watching the mage turn and leave. His mouth feels too dry suddenly. 

_You belong with him_. And well, Jaskier knew that, since the moment he laid eyes on Geralt he knew that, he just didn't think, not in his most fervent dreams, that it might be his destiny to be more than Geralt's bard. Because things aren't like that between them, not for Geralt at least. 

Jaskier huffs, no less frustrated with the mage and her words than the first time he met her, and turns to go join Geralt. 

He gives Geralt what he hopes is a carefree smile as he approaches his table and puts his lute down carefully before he slides onto the bench next to Geralt. He steals Geralt's ale, taking a few big gulps and ignoring Geralt's glare.

"You know she was a mage, right?" Geralt asks, and Jaskier puts the tankard back, wiping over his mouth.

"Yes."

Geralt sighs. "Jaskier, be careful. An angry father or husband and a heartbroken barmaid are one thing, an angry sorceress another," he says. "Maybe choose someone who can less easily kill you to spend your time with."

"Spend my time with? Oh. Oh no," Jaskier says and snorts, shaking his head. "I have no intention of sleeping with her. Well, maybe I would have, the first time we met, but no. Big no."

Geralt frowns.

"She's just someone I met once. We just, you know, said hello," Jaskier lies smoothly and leans into Geralt a little more, slides his hand onto Geralt's thigh under the table. "I was thinking, however, we could retire soon. Unless you have other plans for the night?"

He makes to draw away again, but Geralt curls his hand around his wrist, gives it a squeeze, and Jaskier smiles winningly.

*

Jaskier wakes up with the sun shining in his face. He stretches, feeling pleasantly sore in all the right places. 

Geralt is awake, but still in bed with him. He's lying on his back, one arm trapped under Jaskier's head, and Jaskier smiles. Usually, though not always, Geralt is already up by the time Jaskier awakes; half the time he's already packed, too, just waiting to get back on the road. 

Sometimes, though, Jaskier gets a morning like this. Where he gets to wake up and press close, look at Geralt's naked skin in the early morning light, enjoy the afterglow of a long, sweaty, amazing night together.

"Good morning," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and Geralt just hums in reply.

Jaskier shifts closer to him, leans over to press a kiss to Geralt's chest, then another when Geralt doesn't protest.

Lifting his head, Jaskier looks at Geralt through his lashes and grins, before he pushes himself up and swings a leg over Geralt, straddling him.

"Jaskier," Geralt says then, but there's no warning in his tone, no displeasure. 

Jaskier ducks down and brushes his mouth over the middle of Geralt's chest. He kisses a path further and further down, scooting back on the bed.

"What are you doing?" Geralt asks.

"What does it look like?" Jaskier replies and nuzzles Geralt's stomach, the muscles firm and the skin smooth. Geralt makes a quiet, content noise.

"I was thinking," Jaskier continues, speaking the words against Geralt's skin. "We could stay another day."

"Hmm. I do need to stock up on some things," Geralt concedes. 

"Later," Jaskier murmurs and changes positions, nudging one leg between Geralt's. Geralt spreads his thighs willingly, gives Jaskier room to settle between and Jaskier licks his lips, smiles as his eyes settle on Geralt's cock, hard and lying against his belly. "Let me convince you to stay in bed a little longer."

Geralt groans in reply and Jaskier is grinning as he takes Geralt into his mouth.

*

His conversation with the mage stays on Jaskier's mind. 

It doesn't really change anything and yet it feels like everything is different. Jaskier was content before, happy with the knowledge that his songs were his legacy, that he was destined to be Geralt's bard. 

Now he's just destined to be Geralt's. And that's fine. That's _great_. Except Jaskier already felt that way before anyway and whether his purpose in life is to write songs about Geralt or share his life with him in some other capacity, it doesn't change anything, because both boil down to the fact that Jaskier's path in life is Geralt's path.

But Jaskier is well aware of the fact that Geralt being his destiny doesn't mean he is Geralt's. Geralt has lived many decades without Jaskier before they met and he will live many more without him after Jaskier is long dead. In the grand scheme of things, Jaskier is only part of Geralt's life for a brief period of time. 

Jaskier's okay with that. He's made Geralt his life, by choice as much as by destiny, and he doesn't need to have his feelings reciprocated to know this is special.

And he knows how Geralt feels about destiny anyway. He made it clear in Cintra not too long ago. He doesn't believe in destiny. Doesn't want to be part of any destiny and would sooner run away from it than embrace it. 

And yet, still. It brings Jaskier happiness, knowing that walking by Geralt's side, sharing a bedroll and having the witcher's attention, his touch, his grudging affection is not something he has no business of receiving, selfishly taking Geralt's time like a thief stealing coin, but something he is meant to be having.

*

"You stay here with Roach," Geralt says, and Jaskier takes a page out of Geralt's book and just rolls his eyes in reply but stays silent. They've been over this; Jaskier trusts Geralt to judge how close to the action Jaskier should get before it becomes too dangerous. And okay, he hasn't always listened, has once or twice not heeded Geralt's warnings and followed Geralt. But despite what Geralt thinks, Jaskier isn't keen on getting himself killed and so he stays behind when he has to.

"I mean it," Geralt stresses. "This one is too dangerous."

"Yes, Geralt," Jaskier says with a fake, placating smile, and Geralt grunts, looking a little annoyed. "I will stay here, awaiting your return. I won't leave other than to gather some wood for a fire, perhaps cool my feet in the stream, and I will not get myself into any trouble, my dear, mighty witcher."

"Remind me, Jaskier. Why do I try to _not_ get you killed?" Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier laughs quietly. "Go, do your witchering thing," he says, making a shooing motion. "And Geralt? Stay safe."

"Hmm," Geralt hums, and Jaskier knows it's as close to a promise as he'll get. 

He watches Geralt leave, ignoring the slight twist of worry low in his belly. He knows Geralt will return, he always does; most of the time, Jaskier isn't too worried, knows the beasts and monsters Geralt fights don't stand a chance. Sometimes, though, sometimes he knows Geralt is heading into a fight that won't be easy and those are the times Jaskier hates staying behind.

He stokes the fire, plays his lute and takes solace in the fact that Roach is there with him, at least, as he waits that day. The clearing Geralt left him in is quite pretty, sun shining down and spring flowers sprouting around him. There's a small stream, barely ankle deep, that bubbles along peacefully and if Geralt was there with him Jaskier thinks this would be all rather nice. 

He doesn't expect Geralt to return quickly. He left Jaskier and Roach behind far enough from where the leshy lives, deep in the forest, that he'll have to trek much deeper into the woods first. 

But when the sun starts setting and Jaskier has started a fire, the clearing gradually becoming darker and darker and the chirping of the birds quieting down around him, the knot in his stomach starts to tighten. He expected Geralt to come back sooner. 

"He'll be fine. He's always fine," Jaskier says to Roach, who neighs softly, and Jaskier sighs. He picks up his lute, strumming it without picking a melody, just to pass the time, but he stops at every noise he hears, hoping it's Geralt returning.

It's fully dark by the time he finally hears heavy footsteps, branches snapping loudly. Geralt is usually quiet, knows how to walk without announcing himself to his surroundings, but these are the noises of a man stumbling, dragging himself along.

Jaskier springs up, and he grabs his knife just in case. 

It is Geralt though. Geralt, who is dirty and bloody and barely able to hold himself up. 

"Geralt," Jaskier exclaims, dropping his knife and hurrying to Geralt's side to support him. "You're hurt. How bad is it? Come on, let's get you sitting down, let me see."

"Jaskier," Geralt just says, the word slightly slurred, pained, and then he slumps against Jaskier. He's not unconscious, just weak, and Jaskier puts a hand on his chest to steady him. Geralt hisses and at the same time Jaskier registers the sticky, warm blood under his palm.

"Come on. Walk with me, just a few more steps," Jaskier coaxes, trying to stay calm when his heart is in his throat. He's seen Geralt hurt many times, but rarely like this. Jaskier can't imagine how he even managed to drag himself back here when he barely seems to be able to hold himself upright. 

He helps Geralt to his bedroll, trying and failing at lowering him down gently, and Geralt sinks down with a pained grunt, panting harshly. Jaskier carefully guides him to lie down and swallows as he assesses the damage in the light of the fire. Geralt's left side of his armor has come off, torn and hanging loose, and his shirt underneath is torn and soaked bloody, and there's a big, deep gash underneath. It's a nasty wound and Jaskier guesses Geralt must have lost quite a bit of blood.

"Is this the worst? Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks, not wanting to place his hands on Geralt for fear of hurting him, and yet he's desperate to touch him, to feel him warm and breathing under his palms. 

"Hmm."

"Geralt. Are you hurt anywhere else?" Jaskier prods.

"Shoulder. Worst of it," Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier nods in relief.

"Okay. It's bad, but not _that_ bad," he says, more to reassure himself than Geralt. "I'll clean this out and patch it up. You'll be good as new in no time, right?"

Geralt grunts his agreement, and Jaskier doesn't like how pained he sounds, how harsh and short his breathing is. 

Getting Geralt out of his armor and shirt is an ordeal. Jaskier grits his teeth and tries to be quick and careful, ignoring the hurt noises Geralt makes whenever he is jostled because there's nothing he can do. 

When he's done, Jaskier gets the cleanest of Geralt's two spare shirts from his saddle pack and tears it into pieces. He checks Geralt's potions and salve, too, and makes a dismayed noise when he opens the healing salve Geralt uses on wounds and finds the little pot all but empty.

"Damn you, Geralt, you idiot," he mutters, though he isn't sure if the salve would do any good on a wound this deep and bloody anyway. 

He returns to Geralt's side with the pieces of cloth and a waterskin. He pours water over the wound, then carefully pats it dry, but it's bleeding badly enough that it doesn't make much of a difference, and then he uses most of the remains of Geralt's shirt to wrap the wound. 

It's the best he can do for now. Geralt is completely out by the time Jaskier is done—asleep or passed out, he isn't sure. Jaskier wets the last strip of Geralt's shirt and cleans his face as best as he can, wiping away blood and dirt and sweat. Geralt's face is tense, pained, and Jaskier cards his fingers through Geralt's hair.

"You'll be better tomorrow," he murmurs and kisses Geralt's brow before settling down on Geralt's right side. 

*

Jaskier wakes up early the next morning. He expects Geralt to already be awake, if maybe not up yet after last night's ordeal, but he's not. When Jaskier shifts back from where his face was pressed into Geralt's arm to get a better look at him, he finds Geralt's eyes closed, his expression tight and his forehead beaded with sweat.

"Geralt," Jaskier says and sits up quickly. He palms Geralt's jaw, his skin hot and clammy, and Jaskier gets a feeling that something is very wrong. Witchers heal faster than humans and Geralt should be doing better instead of worse by now; a wound, even a bad one, shouldn't knock him out like this.

"Geralt," he repeats, louder, and taps his jaw. "Come on, wake up."

Geralt groans, his eyes opening to slits. He makes a sound, something that sounds like the beginning of Jaskier's name, but is too slurred to be intelligible. 

"I'm going to check your wound, okay? Just lie still," Jaskier soothes and Geralt's eyes flutter closed again.

The bandages are soaked through with blood and Jaskier peels them away carefully. In daylight Geralt's wound looks even nastier than the night before and the skin around it is swollen and red and burning hot to the touch. 

"Shit, Geralt," Jaskier mutters, feeling utterly helpless for a moment, his throat closing up. He's not good at this, getting them out of a crisis. That's Geralt's job. Jaskier can take care of Geralt's basic needs; he can rub sore muscles and wash Geralt's hair, buy him food and ale and the occasional new piece of armor when he wants to spoil him. He offers physical comfort, or jokes when needed, but the big, scary situations, those are Geralt's thing. He isn't used to Geralt needing help, not like this. 

Jaskier swallows, takes a deep breath. "You can do this. You can fix this," he says and runs a hand over his face. 

Geralt needs a healer, clearly. They're several hours away from a town big enough to have one, so Jaskier will have to get Geralt onto Roach and get him there. 

First, though, he will need to redress the wound. 

With a final touch to Geralt's jaw, Jaskier squares his shoulders and stands up. If necessary, he will fucking carry Geralt to a town.

Jaskier refills the waterskin. He finds some calendula and yarrow in the clearing and he doubts it'll do much, but it's better than nothing. He cleans Geralt's wound out once again, crushes the plants between his fingers and packs them onto the wound before rewrapping it with strips of his own spare shirt. 

Geralt stirs, groaning and hissing a few times, but he's barely alert other than that. Jaskier lets him rest while he packs up their things. Getting Geralt up and onto Roach is the hardest part.

"You have to help me with this," he begs quietly. "Okay, Geralt? Just this. I'll handle the rest. But I can't lift you up."

He must have gotten through to Geralt, because he uses what little strength he has left to help, and Roach is patient and still, stooping down a little, and Jaskier has never loved her more, promising her a thousand apples and fresh hay when they make it to an inn. 

He gets up onto Roach behind Geralt, his arms around him to hold the reins and make sure Geralt won't slip off.

It's a long ride. Geralt is mostly unresponsive, a heavy, boneless weight against Jaskier, radiating heat and sweat. 

They make it into town by midday, but to Jaskier it feels like the trip was endless, his stomach clenched with worry and his head filled with thoughts of all the worst outcomes. 

He can't lose Geralt, he repeats silently, over and over. He'd do anything not to lose Geralt. 

*

Jaskier pays too much for a room and for the innkeeper to help him get Geralt up the stairs while his daughter goes to fetch a healer. He's already paid the stable boy handsomely to take good care of Roach. But coins don't matter—Jaskier will sing and play his lute all day and night long, for as many days as it takes, to replenish their funds as long as it gets Geralt taken care of now.

The healer is an older woman and she clicks her tongue as she checks Geralt's wound. 

"There's poison in his wound."

"How—" Jaskier starts and then stops himself, because it doesn't matter how it happened, how the poison got there when Geralt was only fighting a fucking leshy. All that matters is that the healer fixes Geralt. "Can you help him?"

"I think so," the healer says, and Jaskier takes a shuddering breath.

"You think so," he repeats. "Do you know who—who he is? How important this is? Please. I'll pay you anything. Anything at all. Name it and it's yours."

The healer looks at him with sad, knowing eyes. "Boy, I will not charge you more than anyone else. But I can't do more for him than I can do for anyone else either; I can just try to the best of my abilities," she says. "I will be honest. If he was human, I would say there's nothing much I can do. But he's a witcher, so I can try, and if he's strong enough, which I think he is, he will pull through."

Jaskier nods shakily and sinks down onto a chair next to the bed where Geralt is laid out. "Thank you," he says, his voice barely a whisper. 

He stays where he is when the healer goes to gather what she needs. He takes Geralt's hand in his and looks at Geralt's face. "You can't leave me," he whispers. "You just can't, you hear me? You're supposed to be my destiny and I just figured out what that _really_ means and you can't take that away from me now. Destiny can't be that cruel to have a fucking mage stroll into my life and tell me I'm supposed to be with you and then yank you away from me again. I refuse to accept that, so you have to get better. I'm not giving you any other option, okay?" 

He hangs his head, sucks in a shuddering breath. "Please," he tags on.

*

Jaskier breathes a little easier when Geralt swallows the—bitter and foul smelling—infusion the healer pours down his throat. The poultice she prepares smells even worse and the scent fills the entire room, but Jaskier doesn't care. He'll live with that smell for the rest of his life, trade it in for all the sweet smelling oils and soaps he likes, if it gets Geralt to open his eyes and stand on his own two feet again.

He still is feverish and unconscious when the healer leaves. "If the fever breaks by tomorrow morning, he will pull through," she says, and Jaskier doesn't dare ask what will happen if it doesn't. If there's more she can do or if this is it, Geralt's one chance.

Jaskier heads down into the tavern just long enough to ask for a bowl of cold water and he spends the rest of the day sitting by Geralt's side, wiping his fevered brow with a damp, cold cloth and watching his face for any change, any sign of awakening. He fills the oppressive silence with chatter, rambles about anything that comes to his mind until his throat feels raw, all the while hoping Geralt will wake up just to tell him to shut up.

The innkeeper's daughter brings him dinner he didn't ask for and refuses to let him pay for it, but accepts the generous amount of coins Jaskier gives her to take whatever of their clothing is salvagable to get it washed and take Geralt's armor to be mended. Jaskier only eats a few mouthfuls, too sick with worry to stomach much. 

It's well into the night that Jaskier thinks Geralt's skin is starting to feel a little less hot. The fever doesn't break, but it simmers down a little, and Geralt's face smoothes out, looking less pained. Jaskier keeps his vigil at Geralt's side for as long as his body allows, keeps wiping Geralt's face down, but eventually his eyes start slipping shut in the early hours of the morning and he lies down next to Geralt gingerly and falls into a fitful sleep.

It's morning when he wakes up, but not late, and Jaskier drags himself upright, exhaustion still clinging to every part of his being, but he ignores it in favor of checking on Geralt. 

He places a hand against Geralt's forehead and finds it still a little too warm, but not burning hot, and he looks a lot better, his breathing quiet and even. 

Jaskier slumps forward and rests his forehead against Geralt's, curves his hand around his jaw. "Oh thank the gods, Geralt," he mumbles. He lifts his head, presses a kiss to Geralt's forehead, then his hairline. "You'll be okay. You'll be fine, you bloody bastard."

*

Geralt wakes up in the afternoon. 

His voice is raspy when he says Jaskier's name and it startles Jaskier so much he drops the half-empty, now cold bowl of soup he was just about to take downstairs. It shatters at his feet, liquid splattering everywhere and Jaskier is too busy staring at Geralt to care.

He feels his lower lip starting to tremble and he presses his mouth in a tight line. He's not going to _cry_ just because Geralt's golden eyes are open and pain-free, just because of the sound of his voice. It's not even been two days. 

But it's felt like an eternity to Jaskier.

"Well, look who has finally decided he's rested enough," he tries to joke, but his voice is weak, his tone all wrong. He clears his throat. "I—I need to clean this up. You startled me."

"Jaskier," Geralt says and lifts his arm, holds his hand out. Jaskier is helpless to do anything but take the few short steps to the bed and sink down onto the mattress, take Geralt's hand into his. 

"You ever scare me like that again, Geralt, I will kill you myself," he says, and they both know he's not talking about what happened just now with the soup.

Geralt's mouth turns up a little at the corners, eyes tired, but soft. 

*

At Geralt's insistence, Jaskier has the innkeeper bring up hot water for a bath and he pays a little extra as an apology for the broken bowl. 

Geralt is getting his strength back quickly and he makes it out of bed all by himself and into the small washroom that is separated from the main room with a curtain. Jaskier hovers anyway, offering his help twice and following close behind Geralt just in case. 

He allows Jaskier to help him take the bandage off and the wound looks even better than Jaskier hoped, healing up nicely now with the help of the healer's remedies.

Geralt sinks into the hot water with a groan, tension leaving his shoulders as he lies back.

"Stop fussing, Jaskier," he mutters, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

"I'm not," Jaskier says and pulls back his hands, which had been outstretched just in case Geralt's strength left him again and he would sink underwater.

Geralt cracks his eyes open and looks up at him. "Help me get cleaned," he says, and that? That is something Jaskier can do.

He gets a cloth and soap and sinks down next to the tub, careful not to aggravate Geralt's injury as he starts washing him, cleaning dirt and dried blood and sweat off his skin. 

He saves washing Geralt's hair for last. He combs his fingers through the strands to get the worst of the tangles out before he wets the hair and then massages the lather of the soap into it for longer than necessary, and Geralt hums contently.

The water has gone lukewarm by the time Geralt gets out. Jaskier helps dry him off, even if Geralt is probably up to the task himself, and Geralt wordlessly lets him. Afterwards, Jaskier gets what he needs to redress Geralt's wound, including putting more of the foul-smelling poultice onto it.

"Go back to bed, I will join you soon," Jaskier says when he's done, and Geralt raises an eyebrow.

"I've slept enough."

"Your body still needs rest," Jaskier argues. "Listen to it, if not to me. Please?"

Geralt heaves a sigh, but then gives a small nod, and Jaskier watches him leave the small washroom, his steps steady if a little slow.

Jaskier knows he could use a bath too, but he's not sure how much longer they will have to stay before Geralt can travel again and he had to dip into their savings to pay the healer. So he settles for wiping himself down with a wet cloth, getting as clean as he can without a proper bath.

When he comes out into the main room, Geralt is lying in bed on his back.

"Come join me," he says.

"I should go downstairs, make some coin," Jaskier replies, and Geralt shakes his head.

"You look tired, Jaskier." 

Jaskier feels tired, too. Like he hasn't slept in ages. He feels like these past few days have aged him several years, sucked life out of him. 

"Just for a little while," he agrees. Geralt watches him as he strips down to his underclothes and it's enough to make heat warm Jaskier's belly, but he ignores it. 

He settles down on Geralt's good side, kisses his shoulder, then his neck. "Sleep," he murmurs, and rests his hand on Geralt's stomach, feels it rise and fall as Geralt breathes. 

He waits until Geralt has fallen back asleep before he slips out of bed again, brushing a gentle kiss against Geralt's temple first. He gets redressed, grabs his lute and heads down into the tavern.

*

It's not Jaskier's best performance, lacking his usual enthusiasm and cheer, but the tavern is packed and people seem to be enjoying his music nonetheless. He gets paid well, but refuses all the drinks that are offered to him and all other advances as well. He wouldn't mind a cold ale or two, but he wants to stay clear-headed just in case Geralt needs anything.

"How is the witcher doing?" the innkeeper's daughter asks, putting a plate of food down in front of Jaskier as he takes a small break. 

"Better. He will be fine," Jaskier says. "Thank you for your kindness and help." 

The young woman smiles. "You care about him deeply," she says. "I can tell." 

"He's a good friend," Jaskier replies, and she looks like she wants to ask more—they always do, if they're not put off by the thought of a human being a witcher's friend, his companion—but then she just nods.

"Eat," she says. "You will be of no good to him if you pass out."

*

Geralt is awake when Jaskier returns to their room. There's a candle flickering on the small table next to the bed and Geralt watches him silently, golden eyes tracking him, as Jaskier puts his lute down.

"How are you doing?" Jaskier asks. 

"Fine," Geralt says, his voice low, _strong_. "Did you get any sleep?"

"A little," Jaskier lies. "Do you need anything? Water? Food?"

Geralt shakes his head and holds up the corner of the sheets. Jaskier silently strips out of his clothes, down to his underthings, and slips into bed next to Geralt. He settles down carefully, still hesitant, and Geralt sighs and rolls onto his side. He cups Jaskier's jaw, slides his fingers into his hair.

"Relax. Rest," he murmurs.

Jaskier closes his eyes, more an attempt to hide all the thoughts and emotions swirling around in his head than to comply and sleep. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, and then he tugs Jaskier in, brings their mouths together. It's warm and soft, comforting, and then it's not, because Geralt coaxes his lips apart, licks into Jaskier's mouth and groans his name against his lips, and a fire ignites in Jaskier's belly. He pushes into the kiss, closer to Geralt, suddenly desperate to feel him, to have him against him and on him, warm and alive. 

They're both shirtless already and their underclothes come away quickly, the only fabric on them remaining the bandage crossing over Geralt's chest and shoulder. Jaskier places his hand on top of it, carefully, as they share kiss after kiss, and Geralt covers Jaskier's hand with his, presses down as if to prove he's not in pain. He's doing well.

Jaskier's breath hitches. Geralt breaks the kiss and shakes his head, runs his thumb under Jaskier's eye. "Not now, Jaskier, not now. Not this time," he says quietly. "I'm _okay_."

"You could not have been," Jaskier says, turning his face into Geralt's touch. 

Geralt doesn't deny it, just kisses Jaskier again. Jaskier lets him, allows himself to be distracted by Geralt's mouth and hands, by their cocks dragging together between them as Geralt rocks them together. 

"Gods, Geralt. Please. _Please_ ," Jaskier groans, and Geralt murmurs _yes_ in reply, like he knows exactly what Jaskier is asking for, what he needs. He ducks down, kisses Jaskier's neck as he grabs Jaskier's ass, squeezes it as he hauls him against him, and Jaskier moans and tips his head back.

He whines in protest when Geralt pulls away moments later, his cock achingly hard and his heart thundering in his chest.

"Hush," Geralt murmurs. "I'm just getting some oil."

The words make Jaskier bite his lower lip to keep in a moan. "Your injury," he stammers.

Geralt returns, a vial in his hand. "I barely feel it anymore," he says, and rejoins Jaskier on the bed. He pops the vial open and slicks his fingers up, kisses Jaskier as he slips his hand between his legs.

The first touch against his hole makes Jaskier moan. Geralt murmurs something unintelligible into Jaskier's mouth as he presses in with two fingers. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, grabbing Geralt's forearm. There's no pain, just the overwhelming sensation of being filled, of Geralt coaxing him open around his fingers. They've done this so many times that Geralt knows what Jaskier can take, what he needs, when to give him more and when to ignore Jaskier's pleas for another finger. 

He kisses the words and moans out of Jaskier's mouth, works him open until Jaskier is a trembling, sweaty mess in his arms, rocking down onto three thick fingers and pawing at Geralt's arm and neck. 

When he pulls his fingers free, Jaskier is ready to _beg_. He blinks sweat out of his eyes, presses his trembling mouth to Geralt's chin, his lips, any part he can reach. "Geralt," he says, voice thin and needy.

"Turn around," Geralt says, and his hands, strong and steady, guide Jaskier around, until his back is against Geralt's chest. 

He curls a big hand around the back of Jaskier's thigh, pushes his leg up, opens him up for him, and not much later Jaskier feels the oil-slick, blunt pressure of his cock against his entrance. Geralt buries his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, mouth open against his skin, and rolls his hips forward. He slides in smoothly, steadily, Jaskier opening up around him easily despite Geralt's size. Jaskier is pretty sure he stops breathing for a few moments, until Geralt hips are flush against his ass, his cock buried deep inside of him, stretching him wide. It burns a little and Jaskier moans at the sensation. 

Geralt kisses his neck, breathes in loudly, sniffing Jaskier. Jaskier's used to it, but this time he knows he must smell a little ripe, of sweat and blood and worry. Geralt doesn't seem to mind, he kisses and nips at the sensitive skin there and grips Jaskier's leg tightly before he pulls back and sinks right back in. 

Jaskier reaches behind him, curls his arm around Geralt's neck and moans with each roll of Geralt's hips. Deep and smooth and controlled. A silent show of how well Geralt is doing, strong and alive, and that makes pleasure burn through Jaskier's veins as much as the thick cock inside of him.

It seems to go on forever and yet it's over awfully fast, Jaskier's head spinning and his body alight with how good this is, how good it _always_ is. 

"Let go," Geralt murmurs. "Let go, show me how good it feels." 

Jaskier groans, cries out Geralt's name—over and over—and comes, just as Geralt spills inside of him, hot and sticky. Alive.

*

Jaskier comes awake with a sniffle, his face buried in the pillow under his head. His arm drops down, but the bed next to him is empty. 

He blinks and pushes himself up, sleep clearing from his vision. He drops back down when he sees Geralt, dressed and sitting on the same chair Jaskier occupied just a couple of days ago. 

"You're up," he mumbles.

Geralt hums.

Jaskier turns his head to the side so he can look at Geralt, finds his expression somber, his mouth tugged down into a frown.

Jaskier is up and out of bed within moments, not caring for his nakedness, as he kneels down by the chair. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Are you in pain?"

Geralt gives a small shake of his head, and Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief, relaxes. He rests a hand on Geralt's knee. 

"I remember you talking to me. When I was passed out," Geralt says.

"Oh," Jaskier replies and gives a little laugh. "Well, you know me, always talking. I mean, I had to do _something_ , and it really wasn't much different to our usual conversations anyway."

Geralt regards him, his expression remaining impassive. "What did you do, Jaskier?"

"Do? I didn't do anything," Jaskier says, puzzled. 

"You said something about a mage. And destiny."

Jaskier's stomach twists and he pulls his hand away, moving back to sit on the bed. "Oh, that," he hedges and forces a smile onto his face. "That was nothing. I was just rambling, as always. I barely remember all the things I said." 

"Was it the sorceress from the tavern in White Bridge?" Geralt asks. "The one you said you just _talked_ to? Haven't I told you, more than once, not to get tangled up with mages?"

Jaskier looks down, pulling the sheets over his lap. "Just let it go, Geralt. For once, let's do what you always want and not talk." 

Geralt's silence in return speaks louder than any words could and Jaskier can feel his stare on him. It's unfair, because Jaskier didn't do a damn thing wrong. He didn't get in trouble, like Geralt no doubt thinks he did, but Jaskier knows the truth won't please Geralt either, not with his aversion to destiny. His aversion to any real intimacy. 

Jaskier sighs. "She told me you were my destiny," he admits and huffs. "That's it, Geralt. That's all. Okay?"

He looks up, meets Geralt's eyes. 

"Jaskier. Everyone knows we travel together, thanks to your songs. And I was there with you," he says, voice less harsh. "There's no magic, or truth, to that. Any old crook could have come up with that."

And of course Geralt doesn't _want_ it to be true. But the words sting, because Geralt can deny it all he wants, but it's Jaskier's destiny and Geralt might not like it, but that doesn't make it any less true. 

"She didn't tell me that night. She told me the first time we met. Weeks before I met you," Jaskier says with a sad quirk of his mouth. "So, no, not any old crook could have come up with that."

Geralt's expression shifts, hardens, and he gets up suddenly. Wordlessly, he strides to the door and it slams shut behind him as he leaves.

*

Jaskier scrubs himself as clean as can with a wet cloth and he _really_ needs a proper bath soon if he wants to ever be truly clean again. But first he needs to find Geralt, knock some sense into that thick, gorgeous head of his. And people say Jaskier is the one with a flare for drama.

He gets dressed and heads out. Geralt isn't in the tavern, drowning his sorrows in alcohol because someone had the nerve to suggest they belong in Geralt's life, so he heads out to the stables behind the tavern instead.

He finds Geralt with Roach, stroking the side of her neck while murmuring quietly to her. Jaskier knows Geralt must have heard him approach, but he doesn't react.

"You know, for someone as old as you, you sure do act like a child sometimes," Jaskier states.

Geralt looks at him, glares. "I'm not in the mood, Jaskier."

"In the mood for what? Talking? Because moments ago you were all but making me talk," Jaskier snaps. "I didn't want to tell you. For exactly this reason."

"Jaskier," Geralt growls.

"It doesn't change anything," Jaskier says, his voice loud. "My destiny has nothing to do with yours, doesn't mean anything you don't want it to mean, so you can stop stewing."

"Of course it changes things," Geralt roars, turning to Jaskier with his hands and jaw clenched. 

"How? Because I've known for a while and you knowing now as well doesn't change a thing about how I feel about it. It doesn't change anything between us," Jaskier takes a couple of steps forward, closer to Geralt. "You don't even believe in destiny, so what does it matter anyway, Geralt?"

"But _you_ do," Geralt says, tone hard as steel. "It's a load of bullcrap and all it does is take people's choices away. Makes them follow whatever path they believe they have to, blindly."

A lump forms in Jaskier's throat at Geralt's words and his shoulders slump. "Oh, you big, stupid lummox," he says. "That's why you're angry? Because you think someone told me you were my destiny and I had no other choice? You think that's why I followed you?"

"Isn't it?" Geralt grits out, and Jaskier takes another step forward, rests his hand on Geralt's arm, carefully, like he's touching a wild animal.

"Not even destiny can make me do something I would not want. Maybe it guided me in the right direction, but I came with you because I wanted to. I stuck with you because it's where I want to be. And if I had never met that mage I would still be exactly where I am right now," Jaskier says earnestly. "But I think it's rather nice, knowing one's destiny."

"Nice," Geralt scoffs, but his tone is less aggravated now, less harsh.

"Yes, Geralt, nice. Because sometimes it's reassuring to know that you are where you're supposed to be. That perhaps I will not lose any of this as quickly as I gained it, that this is more permanent than that," Jaskier says. "I know you probably don't like hearing that, but it offers me comfort, knowing I'm not just making a fool out of myself. Well. Not always." 

Geralt grunts but doesn't reply, and Jaskier sighs. 

"Alright, I suppose I've said all I have to say. I'm in our room if you want to find me," he says. He drops his hand and turns, and it only stings a little when Geralt doesn't stop him or come after him.

*

Geralt doesn't return to their room for a while, long enough for Jaskier to bathe, pack up their things—because he suspects Geralt won't want to be trapped inside with Jaskier and his thoughts all day—and sit down with his lute, strumming quiet, somber melodies.

When he does come back, there's an awkward, heavy silence between them. 

"I packed our things. I figured you might want to get back on the road," Jaskier finally says, putting his lute down. "If I am still welcome to travel with you, that is."

Geralt snorts, lips twitching up and eyes softening. "What about this morning makes you believe I don't want you around, bard?" 

It is, possibly, one of the nicest, most heart-felt things Geralt has ever said to him and Jaskier gives him a small smile. "Oh, I know you want me around," he fibs. "But you hardly ever make sense and you're awfully good at denying yourself the things you want."

Geralt huffs. "Let's head out before we waste the entire day, shall we?"

Jaskier gets up and nods. "I had your armor fixed," he says. "You might want to get it replaced eventually, but it'll do for now. We both need new shirts, too. I, uh, had to cut some up to use as bandages. And you need to restock on that healing salve, you idiot. You shouldn't head into a fight if you've run out of it."

"We'll head towards a bigger town," Geralt agrees, his tone soft. 

Jaskier comes to stop in front of Geralt, lute clutched in one hand, and tilts his head up silently. He smiles when Geralt rolls his eyes, but drags him into a kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

The third, and final, time Jaskier runs into the mage is just a few months later. He doesn't talk to her this time.

But Geralt does.

Jaskier doesn't even notice her until he returns to his and Geralt's table with two ales and Geralt isn't there. Jaskier spies him halfway across the tavern, sitting down at a table across from a familiar face. Like the first time they met, her cloak is teal-colored, dark curls spilling out over it, and she smiles at Geralt with no hint of fear.

Jaskier has half a mind to join them, but Geralt turns his head and sends him a look before a can, a clear _stay out of this_. 

"Damn controlling witcher," Jaskier mutters and sits down. He stays even when his patience wears thin after just a few moments, staring at Geralt and the mage and wishing he could read their lips.

A young woman sits down with him and Jaskier glances at her, smiles briefly. When he looks back at Geralt, there's a burly man standing in his line of sight, blocking the view completely.

Jaskier sighs. 

"Are you okay?" the woman at the table with him asks, and Jaskier forces another smile.

"Just fine. Never been better," he lies cheerfully, and the woman smiles.

"I'm Zofia," she says, leaning forward and giving Jaskier a view of her ample bosom. For once, Jaskier doesn't much care for it.

"Jaskier," he replies anyway, and her smile widens.

"I know. Jaskier, the bard," she says. "I heard you play earlier. You're very good. I love your songs."

"Thank you," Jaskier says, a bit more sincerely. 

"Will you be staying in town for a while?" she continues. "We don't get a lot of bards passing through here. I'm sure everyone would love to have you around for a little while longer."

"Oh, I don't know. It really—" Jaskier stops when he spies Geralt, coming back to the table "—depends."

"On?"

"Geralt," Jaskier says as Geralt comes to a stop at the table. Geralt glares at Jaskier's company.

"Leave," he says, tone brooking no argument. The young woman—Jaskier has already forgotten her name—looks at him with wide, scared eyes and gets up quickly, hurrying away. Geralt takes her place.

"Well, that was quite rude of you," Jaskier says.

"Hmm." Geralt grabs one of the ales and looks at Jaskier over the rim of the tankard. Jaskier watches him drink the whole thing, not once stopping, and the knot in his stomach tightens. 

"Geralt? What did you and the mage talk about?"

Geralt puts the tankard down with a thud. "Let's go to our room," he says, and then he gets up without waiting for a reply. Jaskier sighs loudly, but he follows him.

*

Jaskier should have known better than to expect Geralt to talk to him once they're in their room. 

Geralt sits down on the bed and when Jaskier gets close, he grabs him by the hips and rests his head against Jaskier's belly. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier asks and cards his fingers through Geralt's hair carefully. "What did she say to you?"

He feels Geralt's exhale through his clothes, his breath warm and damp. And then Geralt slides his arms further around him and tugs, pulling him in. Jaskier goes down with a small _oof_ , ending up splayed over Geralt's lap, straddling him. 

"Careful," he jests, but Geralt ignores him, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck instead.

Jaskier is used to Geralt's silence. Can usually read it pretty well, every little grunt and huff. Now though, Geralt's silence worries him.

"What did she say?" he repeats and something in his chest constricts. 

Finally, Geralt sighs. "Let's go to bed, Jaskier," he says. "I want to leave earlier tomorrow." 

Jaskier wants to argue. Wants to shake Geralt and demand that, for once in his life, he talk to him. But the thought of what Geralt might say also terrifies him and he thinks maybe for once he might be happier not knowing something.

It doesn't stop him from being upset by Geralt's behavior anyway, and he pushes off Geralt with a huff. 

His anger has dissipated by the time they settle down and he lets Geralt curl up behind him.

"Did she say it was all a lie? What she told me?" Jaskier asks into the darkness, his voice small. He meant what he said to Geralt a few months back, about how destiny or not, nothing would change where he is. But the thought of it all not being true, of this not being his destiny, still scares him.

Geralt presses his mouth to the back of Jaskier's neck. "No."

"Oh. Okay," Jaskier says and breathes a little easier. "Then what was it? What did you talk about?"

Geralt is silent for a moment, his hand sliding around Jaskier, pulling him closer. "You have barely aged a day since we met."

"Uh, well, I'm lucky, I guess?" Jaskier replies in puzzlement. "Age'll catch up to me sooner or later. I'll probably wake up one day and suddenly be gray and not so pretty anymore."

Geralt sighs and it sounds sad. "No, Jaskier. You have barely aged a day in the past ten years," he says, his tone grave. "And you won't the next ten years either, or those after that."

"What are you talking about?" Jaskier asks, though somehow he _knows_. He feels Geralt pull away, sit up. 

"You carry the mark of the White Wolf," Geralt says, words harsh. 

Jaskier sits up as well, his hand finding Geralt's back in the darkness of the room, and he leans in, rests his chin on Geralt's shoulder. "I'm not aging," he whispers.

"No. Because you're _tied_ to me, marked by me before we even met. How are you liking your destiny now, Jaskier?" Geralt says and he sounds so bitter, so hurt. 

"Wait. You think I'm going to be _upset_ about that?" Jaskier asks with a snort. 

"A long lifespan, longer than that of humans, is not a blessing, Jaskier," Geralt grunts. "You'll watch your friends and family die long before you. Watch everyone live their lives while you are stuck, no longer like them."

"Yeah, well, in case you haven't noticed in the past ten years, Geralt, I don't exactly have close friends other than you, and how often have you heard me talk about my family?" Jaskier replies flippantly. "So yes, yes, this is a blessing. Because I won't die long before you do. I won't grow old and watch you move on, leave me behind."

"Jaskier," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier sighs. 

"You absolute idiot," he says quietly, fondly. "Are you done freaking out now? Can we go to sleep?"

"You didn't choose this, Jaskier."

"Neither did you," Jaskier says and turns his head, placing his lips against Geralt's neck. "But if I could, I would choose exactly this." 

"Destiny couldn't have paired me with someone a little less annoying, could it?" Geralt mutters, and Jaskier smiles.

"No," he replies and lets go of Geralt to lie back down. "Now come here, lay down. If you stop brooding, I might even let you fuck me before we go to sleep."

" _Let_ me?" Geralt snorts.

"Well, not with an attitude like that, no," Jaskier replies, and the sound is almost too quiet to hear, but Geralt lets out the smallest of laughs.

*

The room is quiet when Jaskier wakes up, empty. 

He sighs and stretches, but for once he isn't worried. He knows when he looks, Geralt's things will still be in the corner of the room and when they leave, they will leave together. Their paths tied together by destiny, both his and Geralt's.

And when the time comes, Jaskier will be there to help Geralt with his other destiny as well, his Child Surprise.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on twitter ([whispered_story](https://twitter.com/whispered_story)) and tumblr ([whispered-story](https://whispered-story.tumblr.com/)). I need more friends in this fandom, so please feel free to follow me and scream about The Witcher with me. Fic prompts are also welcome.


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